Work Text:
Even before the first flurry fluttered down past Astronomy Tower, drifted through dark sails moored in the Black Lake, and swept over large powder blue carriages parked by the Greenhouses to finally light upon the landing before the doors of the Great Hall, a frosty hush settled over the Hogwarts grounds. It came with the cold front, which had driven the students of Hogwarts and the visiting Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations to their respective abodes, wherein they cloistered and the excitement for the evening’s activities steadily climbed towards a fevered pitch.
Lavender and Parvati ascended the steps from Gryffindor Tower expecting to leave behind the burbling bustle of the Gryffindor Common Room for the relative peace and quiet of the Fourth Year Girls Dorm, where they would begin preparing for the Yule Ball. They were instead met with an entirely unprecedented pandemonium.
Dresses and robes of all sorts were strewn across the beds, the floor, hanging haphazardly off the eaves of the four poster beds and across everything that could be called surface. Hermione stood, dazed and swaying, before the mirror holding a strange contraption to her hair, which no longer curled but was still managed to stretch outwards and and upwards, voluminous in a limp way that was a weak imitation of Hermione's usual vigor. It seemed to be the source of all the cloying heat and energy in the room; a cold breeze drifted in through the cracked open window but seemed to make an about face before hurriedly leaving back the way it came. And most alarming of all was the glassy, tremulous look in Hermione’s eyes as she frantically moved the strange contraption — two longer metal surfaces hinged together at their ends, where a strange cord dangled — across her hair.
“Mimi?” asked Lavender, who stood frozen in the doorway causing Parvati to crane her neck for a better look. “Are you … are you alright?”
Hermione promptly burst into tears as she dropped the contraption, which landed on the hem of a nearby dress, causing the taffeta to sizzle. Lavender rushed to Hermione’s side as Parvati aimed a finite incantatem at the now smoking mess.
“Hey, hey … it’s okay Hermione, nothing a little Sleakeazy’s and coconut oil can’t fix,” Lavender murmured into Hermione’s (admittedly burnt smelling) hair as she held her crying dormmate to her shoulder. “We’ll get you all fixed up, no problem.”
“‘Mi, you need to breathe, stop crying, and drink some water — in that order,” Parvati arrived promptly with the requested items along with a glass of water and a handkerchief.
“Parpar is right; the fix for bloodshot eyes is a potion that I don’t keep on hand and as pretty of a crier that you are, you would be prettier still smiling and radiant on Viktor’s arm,” said Lavender as she ran a comforting hand down Hermione’s back. She leaned in with a sly smile. "And wouldn't that just put a bee in Ron's bonnet."
Hiccoughing her startled laughter, Hermione allowed herself to be steered to the armchair and accepted the offerings. Words staggering through her attempts at a stiff upper lip, she stuttered, “I’m s-sorry, I just tried to enchant the h-hair str-straightener but it made a right m-m-mess of things.”
“Come on, ‘Mi, breathe. In — through the nose — two three four, hold for a count of four, and then exhale to the count of six. Yes, that’s good, again. Remember what I said at yoga last week — remember prana? That vital, magical force all around us which gives us life at first breath? Let it fill you, let it heal you, let it calm you, let it give you life once more, and then let us get to work.”
Hermione nodded at Parvati's words, ever the diligent student, and determinedly stuffed down the tears and made vain attempts at stilling her trembling chin. She sat perched on the edge of the armchair, spine straight, hands wringing in her lap as she seemed to await judgment. At another time, perhaps when Hermione was not so clearly feeling raw and flayed open, Lavender might have taken a dig at the girl instead of comforting her. But that time was not now, so she stepped around and gathered Hermione’s hair. Even in its modified state, it spilled through her hands like night made solid, nothing like Lavender had imagined all those years Hermione had kept it wild despite her attempts at taming it. The simple intimacy of the moment made Lavender pause, but she broke from her reverie and began passing the Fleamont Detangling and Taming Brush and generous amounts of Sleakeazy’s through Hermione’s hair, gradually reducing the frizz and returning some of the original hair texture in the form of soft waves.
“It’s not so bad, you actually did quite a good job on most of it. But you were hurrying here, right?” Lavender held up a section of hair that was noticeably more singed than the others and ran her wand over it, muttering a soft incantation to undo the heat damage and reduce the burnt scent. The strands healed what it could and vanished what was beyond repair. Lavender tucked into the rest of Hermione’s fringe and it looked nearly intentionally chic. “I wish you came to me. Hair straightening charms are easy; if I can do them, then so can you.”
Hermione flushed furiously.
“You make it all look so easy. So effortlessly beautiful. I did try them, but couldn’t get the hang of it, so I enchanted my muggle flat iron to heat without electricity to do it the Muggle way.”
“That won't work here, that electrickery is very unstable in magical homes, possibly even more so in a place as magically powerful as Hogwarts," said Lavender. She smoothed out the remaining section of hair that had been spared Hermione's ill advised efforts, demonstrating the proper technique. "The trick a very subtle movement in the wrist, like so.”
“Lav, I don’t have much coconut oil left,” Parvati called as she climbed up from within her trunk, which Hermione had charmed to accommodate her incredible wardrobe. “I’m going to run over to Padma’s to get some extra.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry, that’s not necessary, I’ve already caused so much trouble and you also need to get ready for Harry—”
“Harry Potter wouldn’t notice if I turned up in a bedazzled bra,” Parvati laughed as she danced out the door, tossing her thick glossy braid over her shoulder. “Besides, I have everything ready. It’ll take just a few minutes.”
The next few minutes passed in silence as Lavender worked. It was a strange dynamic between her and Hermione. They hadn’t always been amicable, once all wrong angles clashing. Hermione’s clipped book-babble against Lavender’s bright chatter; Lavender’s perfumes and makeup an affront to Hermione’s orderly stacks of books. They eventually learned each other the way one learns a new set of ancient runes — through repetition, irritation, necessity. They eventually made space for each other somewhere between shared giggles over Professor Lockhart, Hermione going over the theory behind Transfiguration three times every week, and Lavender’s attempts to coax out Hermione’s Inner Eye and Inner Sensitivity Training.
The silence sat up, stretched, sank its claws into her lungs, and went to sit and watch as Lavender’s heartbeat synced with the cadence of her brushwork. When Hermione’s hair fell in glossy, perfect waves, Lavender set to work in gathering, twisting, and pinning it into an updo. The sight of the long line of Hermione’s neck emerged and the silence became intolerable, hard to breathe.
“What did you pick for your dress, Mimi?” Lavender coughed out as she orbited Hermione, taking a clean eyelash spoolie to style and coiled the small baby hairs that laced her hairline. “Last we spoke, you were trying to decide between the azure and the coral.”
Hermione huffed out a frustrated sigh.
“I can’t decide. Neither feel right.”
“That’s because you’re not an autumn. All of these—” Lavender gestured broadly around the room, her hands never really pointing away from a candidate dress, "—tones are very warm, and yes your skin is very rich and brown, but you have quite the cool blue undertone.”
“Wouldn’t the blue — oh, I’m sorry, azure, ow—” Hermione rolled her eyes and Lavender pinched her earlobe in gentle admonishment, “—work with my cool undertone?”
“It’s very near, but instead of leaning teal, perhaps consider Transfiguring it a bit more purple. A touch of purple, perhaps,” Lavender teased, attempting lightness but only having a tight, coiling tension condense within.
Hermione nodded, a movement small enough that it wouldn’t disrupt the delicate work Lavender was doing but pronounced enough to convey understanding. She lifted her wand to adjust the colour of the bright blue dress that dangled from Hermione’s four poster bed. “Is that good?”
Lavender stepped back to admire her work just a moment before turning to the adjusted dress. She trailed her fingers over the light, floating organza and the light boning on the bodice that would show actually show off the obscene waist Hermione hid beneath her robes, and then brought it down and held it out for her to step into.
“I would go a little lighter and just a touch more purple, a bit more lavender, but not all the way; that’s my colour,” said Lavender as she looped up the buttons that trailed down Hermione’s back. She adopted a heavier teasing tone. "It wouldn't kill if you to be, well, a little more like little old me. The hue you should aim for is called periwinkle.”
Parvati returned huffing and puffing as Hermione made the final tweaks and Lavender set to charming the dress free of wrinkles.
“Oh my gods, ‘Mi! Wow, it’s such a small change but that little bit of purple it makes all the difference!”
"I know, right? Don't I look good on her?"
Lavender took the coconut oil from Parvati, whose mouth hung open and eyes shone with starstruck delight. Her stomach twisted as she returned her attention to Hermione’s hair; there was something too sleek, too smooth, and elegant in a way that was fundamentally wrong. The wild, untameability seemed caged and Lavender’s everything itched to unleash it. She reached out, fingers lightly slicked with coconut oil, and loosened strands from Hermione’s hair, enticing them to return to their natural coils and framing her face.
It was to stunning effect, and yet was nowhere near enough. It took everything Lavender not to stick her hands in that hair she spent so long twisting it away from anything resembling its true self. She fought the urge even as she applied rouge and blush, every bit unnecessary as it became ever more clear to Lavender that Hermione needed nothing more, nothing changed at all. The updo was too tight, it was all so wrong, and Lavender felt it like a vice around her chest.
“Thank you, Lavender, Parvati, for all your help,” Hermione said as she faced each of them. “I’m not very good at this. Thank you for making me look beautiful.”
Lavender opened her mouth to dismiss it, to make light so that Hermione could step out to meet Viktor with a laugh on her lips. Instead, she found herself caught on the unfamiliar line of Hermione’s hair, on the rich darkness of her skin as it glowed against the periwinkle, on the earnestness in her eyes that was so insistently, inherently Hermione. Lavender felt that tightness within transmute and condense, startling and clawing and so hungry.
“You are beautiful.”
The words tumbled out without thought or hesitation. Not ‘you look beautiful.’ Not ‘you are pretty.’
The difference landed on Parvati, who cut a sidelong glance at Lavender for the slip of the tongue, but Hermione just smiled prettily and obliged with a shy twirl.
“Yes … Viktor is going to forget his own name,” Parvati agreed, her eyes trained on Lavender and certainly seeing all her roiling turmoil and strain, tremulous and startling. “Prettiest, most popular girl at the ball. They won’t know what hit them.”
Hermione flushed deeply and ducked out the door with a nod and a wave. As the door snicked close, Lavender seemed to draw breath for what felt like the first time, as if every moment before now had only been made of the same stuff that filled the dreams of babes still sleeping in the womb. The soft gasp filled her chest, her whole being, and in her lungs, around her heart, racing through every vein and suffusing through every last cell, where it took the shape of breathless, desperate longing.